


Love, the Lion, and Lethe

by EinahSirro



Series: The Lion and the Bull [2]
Category: Troy (2004)
Genre: Amnesia, Anal Sex, Bondage, Captivity, Dubious Consent, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships, being drugged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-12 04:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20982788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: Achilles has gotten Hector to his mother's secret island, far from the smoking ruins of Troy. But Hector has lost everything he ever cared about, and Achilles cannot bear to let his prince go through the grieving process. Better, he thinks, to drug him, confuse him, even abuse him, anything to make him forget his lost life and focus on who loves him now.





	1. Hector Awakens

Hector awakened, not in his quarters. He blinked in confusion. The late morning sun was streaming in… because part of the wall was crumbled away. He laid still, his blinking dark eyes searching and lost. There were columns with ivy climbing around them, as if the gardens were creeping into the structure, and he could see—beyond that partial wall—lush flora, and bright blue sky. The air was warm and mild, and there was birdsong. A long swath of thin, white cloth stirred slightly in the morning breeze; it looked as if it had been hung from the roof where the wall had once stood, to block the sun, like a curtain. 

He was lying in a bed of comfortable thickness, and the sheets and blankets that tangled around his limbs were faded, but soft and clean. He looked down at himself, and saw and felt that he was naked, and following immediately upon this was the realization that he was not alone. But the arm that draped over him, thick, golden, very well muscled, was certainly not his wife’s. He moved carefully, trying to extricate himself gently, not wanting to awaken this other person while he himself was still so utterly puzzled. 

Had he drunk wine last night? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t seem like it. There was a taste in his mouth more reminiscent of sour potions given by healers, and as for last night… Hector had no idea what “last night” was. The last he knew, he and his brother were—oh. He must still be in Sparta. In bed, with some—he lifted his head and looked carefully over the bunched up covers—some blond haired soldier, apparently. 

Hector was horrified. This was not his way. He had a wife and a child. And he was part of a peacekeeping envoy, a guest in someone else’s home… _think of the lectures you’ve given Paris, _he told himself. Now he was eager to slide out of this bed, wrap himself in whatever he found, and retreat to some place of privacy to restore what dignity he could. But—he glanced around again—why were the walls crumbling?? 

Looking about, he saw that the bed was the lone piece of furniture, aside from a small table beside it, in a room of what looked like an ancient marble palace. It must have been fit for the gods in its day. He noted the massive fire pit, and the remains of fish in a metal pan on a makeshift spit propped over it. It looked as if two soldiers had made camp in an abandoned, crumbling temple or citadel. He could hear the ocean. Was he even in Menelaus’s abode, still? Had he and a group of revelers wandered through town to the outskirts and… Hector’s head whirled. This was not how a Prince of Troy conducted himself on a peacekeeping mission to a longtime rival. 

Just as he was reaching the edge of panic, the blond head lifted and he found himself staring into a face that struck profound unease in his heart. It was a boyishly handsome face, with smooth skin and full lips, but the expression on it was that of a predator regarding something edible. The eyes were blue as the ocean and far colder. Concentration and intelligence were visible, and the intensity of the stare made Hector certain that he was in some sort of danger, but… there was a shameful hint of excitement mixed with his unease.

***

Achilles felt Hector stirring, and lifted his head to assess his prince. His mother had given him a chalice last night and said, “One drop, and he’ll forget how long he’s been here. For a while. Two drops, and he’ll forget the burning of Troy. For a while. Three drops and he’ll forget that the Greeks ever came…" 

“For a while,” Achilles added, dissatisfied. 

“Be glad it’s temporary.” She told him sharply. “If you overdose him, and he turns into a child, it will only be for a while.” 

She saw his eyes narrow with speculation and gave him a stare of disapproval. “This is why I never let you have a pet. I couldn’t bear to see what you’d do to it.” 

He gave his mother a rather affronted look, and wanted to say, “I’m not a monster,” but felt that might be a lie. So he took the chalice, and the glass bottle, and she watched while he measured out four drops. 

“Are you sure?” She said, her eyes as clear and cutting as a thin blade. 

“You said it’s only for a while.” 

“What is the point of rendering him so confused?” She asked. 

Achilles shrugged. “I want to see.” 

She disapproved, but didn’t care enough to exert herself, and he took the chalice out of her wing of the compound to his own, and to Hector, who was grieving by the fire pit for his demolished city. Again. 

“Drink this. It will make you feel better.” 

Hector ignored him, staring into the fire, eyes bleak. Achilles looked at him, at how the red-gold of the fire on his features erased the shadows and made him eyes and eyebrows, whiskers and curls. When he was this deep in agony, he ignored Achilles completely. 

Achilles did not like when Hector ignored him. He sat down next to him, urging him, “Drink.” 

Hector stared into the fire. 

“Drink. Don’t you trust me?” 

Hector gave him a shaming look, as if to say, _How could you ask me to?_

“Drink,” Achilles grew impatient, and ran one hand restlessly over Hector’s bare back in a rough caress. 

Finally, Hector accepted the chalice, knowing from experience that Achilles would not rest until he had obeyed. Well, he was accustomed to obeying, he thought, heartsick. 

“My father is dead,” he brooded. 

“He was old,” Achilles responded matter-of-factly. 

Hector looked at him again in disbelief at such an unsympathetic observation. 

Achilles sighed and looked away. He never knew what to say to grief. When he was grieving, he fought and killed till it went away. He didn’t talk about it. He turned back. “Drink,” he ordered, and urged Hector’s hand. 

Hector drank some, and drew back, looking at it in disfavor. 

“Drink or I’ll bite you,” Achilles finally snapped. 

Hector hesitated, and then drank. He’d been bitten before. The love bites on the back of the neck while the warrior held him down and plundered him like a bed slave were one thing. The chomp he’d inflicted on Hector’s shoulder one afternoon when he was frustrated was something else. That had been very painful, and had left marks for weeks. 

When the chalice was empty, Achilles set it aside and reached for a small jar of honey. He smeared a bit on his finger and brought it to his prince’s lips. “Come, open,” he said, and watched in satisfaction as Hector sucked on his finger to rid himself of the taste of lethe. He ran his free hand up and down the curved back as Hector sat hunched before the fire. 

“Come to bed,” he instructed, knowing the lethe would pull a mortal under in seconds. 

When they were in bed, and Hector was semi-conscious, Achilles wrapped himself around him like a boa constrictor around his prey, and watched him fall into sleep. He enjoyed watching Hector sleep. Some of the tragedy faded from his brows when he slept.


	2. Who Is This Blond Madman?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector doesn't know who this man is, but he's incredibly strong, very aggressive, and knows exactly how to make the prince go weak and compliant.

“Where are we,” Hector asked the mysterious blond-haired man softly, afraid to awaken unseen others who might be nearby.

“On an island,” the man answered. His voice was the sort that resonated in his throat even when quiet. His stare was unwavering.

“How did we get to an island?” Hector was growing more concerned by the moment. How far was he from his brother, his guards, his servants, his scribe… he looked around again. Where was his armor? Where were his clothes??

“I brought you here,” came the voice again, the softest of rumbles. The other man hadn’t moved. His arm still held Hector down. A quick glance showed him that the other man was as naked as he, and profoundly unconcerned about it. 

“And why?” Hector was now angry enough to give a more direct glare. 

“You’re my prisoner.” The blond was very matter of fact. He seemed to be waiting to see how the Prince of Troy would respond. 

Hector immediately gave a lurch intended to propel him from the bed, and was unprepared for the other man to explode into action, a bundle of golden muscle coming to life and grappling him back down, gripping him and squeezing him with a power and force Hector had never encountered before. Furious now, and not a little afraid, Hector fought the stranger with every bit of strength he had, but the man was almost inhumanly strong. 

At length, Hector went limp, and the soldier—or whatever he was—slid onto him with a satisfied smirk on his full lips. Suddenly, he felt the hot, hard length of the other man pressing up against him, and the nature of the situation changed. Hector began struggling again, ardently, lips drawn back over his teeth and he twisted and heaved against the other man. But again, it was to no avail. Before long, his arms were pinned by the wrists against the bed, and this aggressive fellow had slid a strong thigh between his legs and was pressing against him with an intimacy both exciting and offensive. 

“The more you struggle, the more … interested I become,” the golden stranger warned him, the smirk on his lips not fading. 

Hector lay panting, staring up at him in astounded affront. 

“And it seems you’re more … interested than you want to be, too.” 

Hector looked down at himself, and then away, flushing. This whole situation was horrifying. “I demand that you release me.” He said, very formally. 

His captor laughed, showing perfect teeth, and then ground his hips down against the prince several times in rhythmic thrusts. Hector felt a wave of arousal—making him rather dizzy. 

“I happen to know,” the damned fellow said in a purr, “that you like being held down.” 

Hector could scarcely formulate a response strong enough to express how very distressed he was at this moment. As his mind staggered about in his head, the brute on top of him leaned in to whisper in his ear, “and I know that these ears are very sensitive…” 

Tingles ran down Hector’s legs, and he tried to just straighten his arms a bit, but the grip on his wrists was like manacles of bronze. 

“… and your neck. When I suck on your neck, you get weak,” the other man informed him, and then proceeded to demonstrate. 

Hector let out a strangled sound and lay staring over the man’s smooth shoulder at the cracks in the marble ceiling as his body grew ever more helpless and responsive to the onslaught. 

“Now, if you want me to let you out of this bed, you’ll have to earn it.” The blond finished. “I’m going to let you go, and grab that pot of oil over there, and show you exactly what to do with it. And if you’re a good naked slave for a little while, you’ll be a clothed prince having his breakfast again right after. So.” 

Hector let his muscles relax and the young god on top of him released his wrists, sat up on his thighs, and reached for a clay pot on the corner of the huge bed. He brought it back, dipping his fingers in it. 

“Let’s start with our hands,” he murmured, and slicked up Hector’s cock with a rough but practiced stroke, causing the prince to arch his back with a gasp. “But we don’t want to go too fast,” he commented, and slowed his hand until Hector was groaning, his hands floating open and uncertain at his sides. The man smiled down at him. “Give me your hand,” he said softly, and Hector found himself obeying the stranger’s every command. He let the man slick his hand with oil, and he took his partner’s hard cock and stroked it even as the other man pleasured him. He did whatever he was bid. 

Until the stranger leaned over him, blond hair falling on either side of his face, and said, “Kiss me.” 

Instantly, Hector turned his head to the side. “No,” he breathed, and saw his captor rock back in dark anger. He gripped the prince’s hard flesh and stroked it rough and fast, almost glaring down at him. 

“I know what you like,” he said. 

Hector wanted to tell this soldier that he knew nothing of him, but the confounded fellow dug his free hand into Hector’s dark curls and pulled his head back just hard enough to hurt, and the sensation went through him like a glorious knife. He let out a cry, eyes closed, and felt the release building in him. 

His captor stopped stroking and held him there, on the edge of release, squeezing his cock and pulling his head back to expose his throat. He stared down as if gloating over him. Then he released the straining erection and lay down on him, trapping both of their aroused members between them, sliding and grinding on them as he sank his mouth onto Hector’s throat again. Pulling his head back yet further, the blond feasted on him like a helpless, trapped creature until the prince came, writhing, his arms wrapping tight around the man who held him down. 

*** 

When Achilles finally recovered from the dizziness of release, he lifted his head, sated and almost satisfied, to stare down at his prince. Hector was breathing heavily, brows knit in anxiety, and the large, dark eyes wouldn’t meet his. The stunned gaze slid away from him as if mortified, and soon he began looking around the ruins again, trying to place where he might be. 

“Kiss me,” Achilles whispered. 

Blinking nervously, Hector shook his head slightly and whispered back. “No. Let me up. You said you’d let me up if I did what you wanted.” 

“And I want you to kiss me.” 

“No. No. I have a wife. I—this is not what I do.” 

Achilles rolled onto his back, dragging Hector on top of him. 

“Hit me, then.” He said, staring up at the man who was now sitting unwillingly atop him. 

“What? No!” Hector tried to dismount, but the warrior gripped one wrist in one powerful hand, and lowered his other to his prince’s pale flank and grabbed it. 

“I’ll let you out of bed if you either hit me or kiss me, but you must do one or the other. Beat me like a slave, or kiss me on the mouth, those are your choices.”

He was honestly just curious to see how Hector would react. For a moment, the prince stared down at him in anger and bafflement, and his free hand lifted for a moment, and wavered in the air. Achilles waited, relaxed, passive but for the death grip he had on his lover’s wrist. 

Then he saw the flicker of pain cross Hector’s full, even features, and the hand fell. He took a deep breath, leaned down, and kissed him full and deep, and Achilles never felt so full of joy. His hands released their grip and came up to caress Hector’s neck and shoulders as their tongues mingled and danced. The kiss was loving, familiar, and effortless. 

Finally, Hector detached and leaned back, looking more troubled than ever. “Who are you?” He asked. 

Achilles smiled lazily up at him. “I’m your slave.” 

Hector gave him an irritated look and moved off of him, climbing out of the bed, kicking the blankets off of his long legs. “I don’t think you are,” he said wryly, and looked around for something to drape himself with. He found the blue cloth by the bed and wrapped it briskly around his hips and shoulder. “Now answer me. Where are we, and how do we get back?” 

The blond warrior looked at him for a long moment as if unwilling to speak, and then finally rolled gracefully out of the bed on the opposite side and went to the fire pit. Careless of his nudity, he tossed a log and some bark on the embers, and lowered the spit to heat up the remnants of fish. Then he plucked a faded gray tunic from the rumbled folds of blanket on the bed and slipped it on, letting it fall to his thighs. 

Hector watched the stranger take up a jug from the floor and pour water into a mug and drink it down. Then he poured more, and handed it to the prince, waiting until he drank and handed back the empty mug. Finally, he said, “We will not be leaving this island for some time.” 

Now the anxiety churned in his stomach. “What have you done to my brother?” 

“Nothing,” the other assured him immediately. “Menelaus handed you over to his brother Agamemnon, and Agamemnon charged me with keeping you until your father pays the ransom and pledges men to support the Greeks. Your brother has already left with the message.” 

Hector turned away from him in absolute rejection of this information, and then bolted past him to run out of the room, only to come to a stop in astonishment at the sight of the ruined colonnade outside. The crumbling pillars, the encroaching ivy, the moss growing between the stones, seem to strike terror into him. All around was evidence of decay, or rather, the slow return of the leafy green wilderness onto the stones and tiles of what was once a sprawling citadel. 

In the courtyard, however, was a well-tended vegetable garden, and all around him, fruit trees hung heavy with ripe burden. The fountain in the middle bubbled with fresh water from some source that was undoubtedly more to do with a goddess’s magic than any trick of nature. Two chickens pecked placidly at the seeds scattered on the stone near the fountain. 

He turned to his captor, feeling as though he were caught in a beautiful nightmare. The blond had followed him, holding out Hector’s sandals to him. “If you’re going to go running around the island in a panic, put these on first,” he said, and then went to the nearest tree to pull off a pear, tossing it to him. “And have something to eat. You have the run of the island, but there’s nowhere to go. And I wouldn’t go into the water alone. Riptide,” he added with a dark little smile. 

Hector gave him a stern look of defiance, which only seemed to delight the fellow. Then he strapped on his sandals and stood once more. “Why take me? Paris is well-known to be my father’s favorite.” 

The blond stared at him for a long moment, smile fading, and Hector was oddly pleased to have finally startled or confounded the young god. The blue eyes turned away from him for a moment, and then seemed to come to a decision. 

“You’re quite wrong. Your father has spoken often of how dependent he is upon you. You’re his right hand, his most beloved. Paris is his indulgence and delight in old age, but you are his defender, and the protector of his kingdom. He has said, No father ever had a better son than Hector. You are his most valued.” 

Hector stared at the stones between them for a moment, eyes wide and fixed, and then turned slowly away to explore his prison.


	3. In Whose Hands?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector explores his prison, and learns the identity of the madman who is keeping him here.

“You mingle compassion with cruelty so thoroughly, it’s almost artistic,” Achilles’ mother said, from behind the veil of the single willow tree near the fountain.

“His father was a bit of a fool. Well-meaning enough, but…” Achilles lowered his eyes to pick the leaves off the stem of the pear he’d plucked for himself after his prince left the courtyard. 

“You would be his father now. In a manner of speaking,” she said, coming out from behind the hanging green tendrils. 

Achilles gave an impatient shrug. He didn’t know what he would or would not wish to be, he only knew that Hector’s eyes had shown sadness from the day they met, and the warrior frankly did not like it. 

“I don’t know if he’ll remember what you’ve said for long,” his mother added. 

He looked at her, rather put out. “You don’t know?” 

“I don’t. I know how lethe affects the mortal mind if it is given regularly, the same dosage every time. You play with it, giving him too much one day and forgetting it the next. He’s like a garment you weave and unravel again and again. I don’t know what happens, eventually, to the thread.” 

Disturbed, Achilles left her, suddenly not willing that Hector roam the now-unfamiliar island alone. 

Hector hadn’t gone far when he saw a wooden structure that was clearly meant to stable a limited number of horses, and went inside. His mood lifted when Darius thrust out his fine head from a stall to greet him, but when he went to the steed and ran his hands over the long nose, he paused. This was not Darius. The similarity was remarkable, but no. 

The horse butted against his hand impatiently, and the prince resumed caressing him, but he was more puzzled and uneasy than ever. The horse nodded at something behind him, and Hector turned to see the enigmatic blond soldier approaching. He held the fruit out to the horse, who lipped it up immediately. 

“This isn’t my horse,” Hector said accusingly. 

The blond blinked in surprise, and then a look of realization seemed to come over him. “No,” he admitted. “But would it be? That is, would you have taken a horse across the sea? On a boat? Surely Darius is back in Troy.” 

Confused, Hector turned away from him, back to the limpid eyes of the bay. “Yes. Of course.” 

“Do you like this one?” The soldier asked him in an oddly gentle tone. 

“He’s beautiful—how did you know my horse’s name is Darius?” Hector’s unremitting suspicion seemed to amuse his captor. 

“I know you,” he answered cryptically. 

“Oh, what do you think you know?” Hector challenged him edgily. 

“You have a scar on your chest from fighting a Lydean named Kadi many years ago, and one on your thigh from saving your horses when the stable burned. You show respect for the gods mostly to avoid upsetting your father. You can’t swim, but you can fight. You tried to teach your brother to fight, but he always snuck away and hid. When you’re uneasy, you check your weapons and supplies over and over again. You used to have a long braid, but now it’s gone and you don’t remember why. You kill if you have to, but you hate to see anyone suffer, even an enemy. You try not to show anyone when you are afraid or impatient. You love your city…”

Hector was stunned. “Who _are _you??” 

The blond tipped his head, blue eyes intense up on him. “You really don’t know?” 

The prince shook his head slowly. 

“Have you ever heard of a warrior named Achilles?” The soldier asked him with the air of someone changing the subject. 

“Yes. Half-mad, barely civilized, kills for fun, and apparently is a demi-god. Why?” Hector asked distractedly. 

The blond turned away from him, and then ran his hand through his hair for a moment before turning back with a discomfited look. “No reason. Let’s go riding, shall we? I’ll show you the island.” 

*** 

Achilles took his prince on a ride around the perimeter of the island, twice. First, down to the beach, from one end to the other. Then, up the winding trail around the citadel to the higher land that lifted finally to the bluffs. Hector’s eyes swept the sea constantly. Finally he turned and gave his captor a bleak look. 

“You have no ship. You can no more leave this island than I can.” 

Achilles shrugged. “It’s my home.” 

“Who was the woman I saw?” Hector asked, stroking his mount’s long neck. 

“My mother,” Achilles admitted wryly. “It’s her island.” 

“But how do you leave? If you want to leave?” 

“We don’t want to leave. We have everything we need.” 

Hector twisted slightly on his horse and looked around. “Where is your temple?” 

Achilles laughed at that. “We live in the temple.” 

Hector shook his head, clearly not understanding. His eyes turned toward the water again, scanning restlessly. He seemed to suffer a certain miserable seasickness even on land, and finally Achilles figured out why. He pointed Northeast. 

“Troy is that direction.” 

Instantly Hector’s eyes fastened on the horizon and the knit of his brows relaxed, if only marginally. “How far?” 

“In good seas? Ten days, perhaps.” 

Hector turned to him, eyes astounded. “I don’t remember coming here! How did I lose ten days of my life?” 

Achilles felt a prick of unease, or guilt. “You were drugged,” he improvised. 

Hector stared stonily at him for a moment, and then brought the horse around and galloped back across the center of the island, and eventually, the horse made its familiar way back to the stable. Achilles followed. When he dismounted, the prince glanced around and realized no servant existed to tend to the horse. 

“You can just let him roam. We only put them in the stable at night,” Achilles said helpfully, removing his own horse’s bridle. 

Suddenly, one of his mother’s dim-witted servant girls appeared from behind. “Will you dine, my lord?” 

“Yes. Come,” he added to Hector, and padded past her with lithe grace toward the courtyard. 

Hector beckoned the girl, “What is his name?” He asked. 

She looked at him as if he were strange. “Achilles.” 

Achilles looked back at Hector and grinned to see his lover turn so pale. “Half-mad, barely civilized, and your bedmate,” he called. 

Hector stood frozen on the path as Achilles and the servant continued toward the courtyard. He looked as though he was contemplating sleeping in the stables for a while.


	4. Achilles, and How He Thinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector is already certain that there is more to the story than Achilles has told him. Achilles, meanwhile, is pondering exactly what sort of treatment will render his captive as the warrior would have him be.

The prince was not surprised to find that the other four denizens of the island did not dine at a table in formal fashion. The quiet maid-servants prepared food in one crumbling section of the compound, and everyone came and took what they wanted as they needed it, and walked away with the food in wooden bowls.

Achilles guided Hector to a balcony that looked down a sloping landscape of green that lowered eventually to a sandy beach, and the ocean beyond. In the distance, one could see another small island. He lowered himself into one of the chairs, and delved into his food.

“Eat.” He told the prince. “Tomorrow, we’ll train. It will keep you strong.” 

Hector sat and picked moodily at his food. “How does my father even know I’m alive?”

“Paris carries your braid with him, and a report that—“

“That I was alive the last time he saw me. And that means nothing. And suppose my father won’t pay the ransom or agree to the terms? Will it be your job to kill me? Shall I pick out where I’d like my funeral pyre to be?” Hector asked bitterly.

The blond warrior put down his bowl, took a swig of water, and wiped his hands with surprising civility. Then he turned and put one hand on Hector’s back, and the other on his face. “I will never let you be killed.” 

Hector stared, profoundly puzzled, into the blue eyes that met his with what looked like sincere warmth.

“Why?” Was all he could think of to say.

Achilles smiled, ever so slightly. “Because I know you now.”

Hector finished his meal in silence, his mind going in circles like a trapped animal. Then he lifted his head and looked across the water, north of the setting sun, towards Troy. He _was_ a trapped animal. 

When darkness fell, the handmaids lit the fires in the fire pits of each room, and torches in the garden. The prince left his captor overseeing water heating for bathing, and wandered into the gardens, marveling at how much like his father’s they were. The placement of the torches, the stone benches, the hanging flowers over the wall, were all placed with very similar balance. The dimensions were the same, Hector noted, moving slowly around. From some spots he could almost imagine himself home again.

Seated in the midst of it was the woman with the long gray hair, absently toying with long strings of shells that hung down from the branches of an olive tree. They made a light, hollow rattle when she moved them that sounded rather like raindrops on a stable roof.

“You are the mother of Achilles,” Hector ventured, hesitatingly.

She glanced at him with an eye that was rather disinterested but not unfriendly. “Yes.”

“Your garden is … very nice.” There was no point in railing at a woman about his captivity. Hector wasn’t even sure she’d had a choice in having him there.

Her gaze moved around the garden. “Yes. My son wanted it changed so it would look like this. He’s been working on it for some time.”

“It looks like my father’s garden.”

“I know. He wanted you to like it.” She said unconcernedly.

Hector was startled. How long had this kidnapping been planned, and why on earth would a legendary Greek warrior who’d never met him be eager to make his kidnapping so comfortable? The entire situation simply grew more bizarre with every passing hour.

“I don’t understand any of this,” He stated darkly, his head lowering on his strong neck.

“My son loves you,” she said simply, and turned to gently touch the rattling strings of shells again.

“How?? He doesn’t know me at all.” Hector insisted.

“Oh, he knows you fairly well, although he’s obviously not done torturing all your secrets out of you,” she commented, looking up at the shells. “I’m glad he met you, of course. I missed him while he was gone, but now that he has you, he’ll stay. That’s been nice. I like what he’s done with the garden since you came.”

“I’ve… only been here for a day or two… haven’t I?”

She looked at him again, seeming to grow mildly impatient. Hector could see where Achilles got his peculiar demeanor. Although the son had an intensity that the mother lacked. “You must stop trying to understand,” she finally advised him.

Hector looked at her as if she were mad. How could one NOT try to understand his situation?

“Truly, stop trying. You are here. You belong to my son now. He wants to make you happy, so I suggest you lie back and turn your mind toward making him happy as well, because if you don’t, he’ll start tormenting you, and I’ve already seen that. It can get rather--”

“Mother.” Achilles had approached without a sound through the shadows and now stood in the flickering torchlight. His hair was wet and pushed back, and he looked as if he’d just bathed.

“I cannot be bothered to keep track of what state he’s in,” Thetis spoke past Hector to her son. “If you’ve secrets to keep from him, you’d best mind where he is.”

Hector watched in increasing anxiety as the woman rose and left the garden with slow grace. Then he turned and let his black eyes bore into the other man. 

“How long have I been here?” He demanded.

***

Achilles was not pleased. His state of mind was generally uncomplicated enough (he did not like the word _simple_) to be described as either pleased or not pleased. The only time a third possible state arose in his consciousness was when there was something at work inside of him that he was unaware of, or unwilling to accept. Such as his first stirrings of love toward Hector, which had begun, he now admitted, when the prince took off his helmet and prepared himself to die with honor, outside the walls of Troy.

If he were honest, Achilles would have to admit that even before that, when the man followed him into the temple of Apollo, he’d intended on killing him there, and for some reason had decided to… wait. He had been intrigued even then. But when Hector had removed his helmet and looked at him, doomed, but nonetheless determined to end it as well as he could, his eyes and face and voice had done something to the furious warrior. Thus had begun several days of that restless, pacing, suspended state of not-pleased, not-displeased, and not certain why. 

When Achilles had finally come to terms with the reason for this anxiety, peace had settled upon him again, and he returned to the feeling of pleased (when Hector was near him) and displeased (when Hector was not.) For a while. 

But then another wave had passed over him, and he came to understand that he’d grown hungry for more than Hector’s nearness, more even than his compliance. He wanted Hector’s full attention—and this was still at work, he wanted Hector’s full attention all of the time. It was like a hunger that never went away. 

Now it seemed that he had progressed yet another step along this strange journey: he wanted Hector to be happy, and when Hector was with him, and focused on him, and happy… Achilles was pleased. But this was the most difficult state to maintain, because what had made Hector happiest of all was when his city was whole, his father was pleased with him, his wife and child were under his protection, and all was right with his world. These were things that Achilles could not give Hector. These were things that Hector could never have again, and all the things the warrior had tried to substitute: freedom and play, food and drink, horses to care for, and lush sexual pleasure at night… they afforded only momentary happiness. 

Sooner or later, Hector’s early training as a beast of burden (as Achilles contemptuously considered it) overrode the frolics in the ocean, the furious, all-out wrestling in the grass, the wild swordplay, and the breeze-blown gallops across the island. He returned to brooding by the fire or, if dosed with lethe, prowling the bluffs, watching for the white sails of danger, or staring longingly at the horizon toward the long-cold remains of Troy. 

Achilles would have to attack him, overwhelm him, distress him, terrorize him, force him to focus on his own survival, and Achilles. Then, easing up, he could run him on the beach, coax him into the water, and ply him with gifts and diversions. He could tie him up and tease him, subject him to humiliations and shocks that submerged him in mortified ecstasy, and Hector would be distracted by this onslaught, and focused on his own confusion, violated modesty, and bruised pride, and his fearful attraction to the blond madman who seemed intent on devouring him. 

But eventually, Hector would come to understand that this was merely play, and that there was no danger. The novelty wore off, and distraction and sadness would begin to grow inside of Hector’s mind again, and his unhappiness leached away his captor’s pleasure. After enduring it for as long as he could, Achilles would resort to the lethe, and the process would begin again. 

It was now his mission to discover exactly what point in Hector’s life he could be taken to and maintained in order to render him open to living his life as Achilles’ beloved, and need no more. This was turning out to be more difficult than the warrior had expected. 

Achilles had no intention of telling Hector how long ago his life in Troy had ended. If his son were alive, he’d be walking and talking now. His wife might by now have given birth to another child, the child of whatever man she’d been given to. Briseis was undoubtedly someone’s prize as well. Paris was now a wistful memory in Helen’s mind as she endured the sulks and recriminations of her restored husband. Priam’s ashes had scattered in the wind long ago. His few remaining subjects—refugees now—could barely picture his face. But to Hector, they were still in the forefront of his affections. When drugged, he agonized over their safety without him. When cognizant, he was anguished over their fate. As Achilles considered it, he supposed that agonized was better than anguished, if he had a choice. And thanks to his mother’s lethe drops, he did at least have options. 

The possibility was growing in Achilles’ mind, however, that Hector simply could not be happy in the unalloyed, uncomplicated way that he himself could experience. That his happiness must necessarily be mixed with yearning, as for his father’s approval, or anxiety, as for his city’s safety. That Hector must be in harness somehow, bound, pushed, and pressured, and punished occasionally. He must know that much depended upon his obedience. 

Achilles stood in the garden, staring at his glaring, anxious prince, and began making cool calculations as to the nature of the torment, and the extent, that would be necessary to bring Hector to the state of agonized sacrifice that would allow him to focus on himself and his captor. In what fabricated reality could Achilles inflict just enough pain on his beloved prince to do this? And would Hector let the suffering be tribute enough to his responsibilities, and in his own sorrowful way, experience satisfaction?


	5. Achilles Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles not only knows what Hector likes, he knows what Hector fears.

Hector stood in the cooling night air, prickles of fear dancing along his bare arms. His captor seemed to have turned into a golden statue, and stared at him with a grim intensity that did not bode well. Just as the prince was inhaling to demand again, some sort of explanation, Achilles blinked, and returned to warm flesh.

“Come,” he held out his hand. “Come and bathe. The water is hot. You like that.” 

Hector exhaled slowly and followed him into the bathing chamber, where he learned that Achilles enjoyed watching the two handmaidens slowly, silently bathe his prince. Although they touched him everywhere, with secret smiles on their lips, they seemed to understand that they did not have sexual license with him. That right belonged to the warrior. He reclined on cushions close by and watched very closely to see that while they might caress him and clean him intimately, even teasingly, when Achilles suddenly raised his hand, they stepped back and left the room, glancing back flirtatiously at the naked, discomfited prince, as they left him to the ministrations of his captor.

Achilles motioned him out of the bath and the prince rose reluctantly, one modest hand hovering over his groin to hide his mounting arousal. The warrior’s full lips quirked a bit, as Hector was learning they often did. He stood uneasily obedient as the other man toweled him down and then pushed him across the stone floor, out of the bathing chamber and toward the large, half-exposed room that held their bed. The fire in the pit crackled gold, and the stars were visible beyond the partial wall to the south. The balcony looked west, toward the water, and Troy. 

“What do you do when rains come?” He asked suddenly. 

Achilles shrugged. “If it’s bad enough, shove the bed to the north wall. But it’s rarely bad enough.” He tossed the towel aside, whisked off his tunic, and gestured to the bed. 

Hector lay down and the other man was atop him immediately, his face nuzzling the dark whiskers and kissing along his neck with familiar propriety. Before the prince could decide whether to struggle or succumb, the other sat up, flipped his blond locks back, and grabbed a pot of oil from a corner of the bed. He scooped out some oil and slicked his own hard cock up briskly, and then Hector’s, without warning. The prince caught his breath and blinked several times, and then watched as the other man grasped his hand and drizzled oil into it. 

“Rub this into my back,” he instructed, and lay back down on Hector, grinding his hips on him, and rubbing their oiled flesh together roughly. 

Admitting to himself, finally, that he was profoundly aroused by this foreign brute, Hector embraced the muscular form that pinned him, feeling the heat and strength of him as he caressed and rubbed the oil into the smooth skin of that golden back. 

“Are you going to—“ Hector began. 

“Shut up,” Achilles told him, eyes heavy, hips moving insistently against him. 

Hector hesitated, simply wanting to know what to expect, “No, I—“ 

The warrior smacked his face. Not hard. Just a warning. 

For a moment, Hector’s hand left the other man’s shoulder and hovered in the air as if he would hit back, and Achilles waited to see if he would. Still he thrust against his captive, moving his hips to bring their flushed cocks in full and sliding contact. Hector’s breath caught and his hand fell back onto his captor’s shoulder. 

“Rub,” Achilles instructed him, and Hector closed his eyes and obeyed. 

Achilles brought both hands up to Hector’s dark curls, sank his fingers in and pulled his head back firmly, exposing the long throat to his lips and teeth. Hector let his head fall back, feeling the hot flesh pressing against his entire body, feeling the sensitized skin of their straining cocks rubbing against one another. He gloried in the rough, slick abrasion, feeling his heart beat faster as the other man ground a faster, harder rhythm against him, forcing him to keep up. When his climax burgeoned inside of him, his captor tightened his fists in the dark curls and pulled back harder, causing Hector’s hips to pump helplessly, his mouth opened in a silent cry as Achilles sank his teeth into his neck and ground against his cock as it released its load. 

When they’d both convulsed and froze, shivered and squirmed, and finally relaxed into a panting heap, the warrior’s first act was to release his grip on Hector’s soft hair and dig his fingers gently into the prince’s scalp, massaging in circles as if to soothe any pain away. 

Hector lay pinned under him, feeling the care in those fingers, and for that moment, he felt… loved. As if somehow, this enigmatic creature did indeed love him, although how or why it could be, there was no understanding. 

Achilles, hands still holding Hector’s head, lifted his own face away from the throat he so reveled in to kiss his captive’s lips. He saw the flicker of protest in the prince’s sated eyes, but overrode it and kissed him deeply, his tongue stroking and probing wetly until he was satisfied enough to withdraw. 

“Don’t tell me No,” he instructed the prince softly, staring down into the dark eyes. “Whatever I want, you give it, and whatever I say, you do, and you don’t tell me No. Do you understand?” 

Hector’s lips slowly curved into a rare smile. “No,” he said, and then the smile grew to a full grin. 

Achilles blinked and found himself smiling back at him in disbelief. “You spoiled, arrogant thing,” he said, and then lay back down, burying his face in the curls, kissing the prince’s rather prominent ear. “Spoiled, arrogant prince,” he murmured again. He felt Hector’s hands stroke his back tentatively. 

“Half-mad, barely civilized killer…” Hector whispered back. 

At that moment, Achilles was so pleased he thought he’d melt. 

***

In the morning, Hector awoke much as he had the day before, with a blond monster sprawled naked on top of him, and every indication that he was going to spend another day being toyed with by this lion of a man. This morning, as he lay there blinking, an echo of a memory came to him, and he was not sure, but he felt he could almost remember being on the journey home with his brother. Being angry, yelling at Paris, who was staring at him with that half-frightened, half-stubborn look the boy always got.

Hector slid from under his partner and managed to extricate himself from the bed. Wrapping himself in his blue shawl, he stepped quietly around to get some water. Then, supposing he was not so much a prisoner that he couldn’t go to the garden and get a bit of fruit, he made his way through the crumbling—yet still magnificent—citadel and to the garden. He was munching on an apple, and marveling at how sweet it was, when Achilles sprinted into the garden, his tunic half off his shoulder, looking wildly around. 

The prince waited calmly till his warrior spotted him and came grumpily to his side. Apparently Achilles did not like to awaken and find Hector was not pinned securely beneath him. He stared rather glassily at Hector from under lowered brows, and then wrested the apple from his hand and took a bite from it himself. 

“There’s a whole tree full,” Hector protested, trying to take it back. 

“There’s a whole tree full,” Achilles said, refusing to let him. 

Rolling his eyes, the prince turned and picked another apple. 

“I think you lied to me,” he said, turning back. “I remember leaving Sparta. I remember being on the open sea, and I remember being angry at Paris. Tell me the truth now.” 

Achilles finished off the apple, turned away, and then chucked the core into the foliage. “Alright. Your brother took Menelaus’s wife. Helen, the pretty blonde.” 

Hector took a deep breath, his eyes opening wide. Yes, that definitely had a ring of truth to it. It was just exactly like something that stupid child would do. 

“And I’m here… until he returns her?” He still couldn’t see it. 

“No. You returned her to Sparta, but Menelaus demanded satisfaction. He wanted to fight Paris.” 

“Oh, Menelaus would kill him, Paris is an archer but he’s not much stronger than a woman,” Hector said bluntly. He’d never say it to the boy’s face, but the fact was, Paris was a delicate piece of work. 

“Yes, that’s more or less what you said. You said if Menelaus wanted to fight, he’d have to fight you. Of course, that was no more fair. He’s old and fat. So he said that if Paris could have someone to fight on his behalf, so could he.” 

Hector shook his head. He remembered none of this. Achilles darted a look to see if the prince believed this tale, and he could see puzzlement, but no suspicion. So he decided to continue. 

“I was Menelaus’s choice—“ 

“You? You weren’t in Sparta—“ 

“I’d arrived while you were at sea.” 

Hector fell silent. He supposed that could be. 

“So we fought,” Achilles said. 

“Not to the death, obviously,” Hector observed. 

“We were intending to. I had you on the ground. I had my sword at your throat… and then I offered you a choice.” 

Hector’s face cleared up with comprehension, and then clouded over again. “I agreed to be … no. No, I’d never agree to that.” 

Achilles grinned. “I didn’t tell you exactly what I had in mind. I just said _prisoner._"

Still, Hector looked disturbed. Had he dishonored himself? Was that why he couldn’t remember? 

“I told you that you would be my prisoner until Menelaus forgives Helen. I meant it as a mercy: your family could not afford to lose you forever.” 

“So I’m here because of Paris,” Hector said bitterly. “He returned to Troy without her?” 

“Your father insisted.” Achilles was improvising now, but not terribly concerned about it. When Hector’s memory returned enough to realize he’d lied, Achilles could drug him into forgetfulness again. 

Hector paced away from him, brows contracted in that anxious look that Achilles knew so well, and had tried without success to erase. 

“Menelaus will never forgive her. You might as well have killed me.” 

Achilles stared at him. “You’d rather be dead than here?” 

“No, I mean… as far as my family is concerned, it would make no difference either way if they’re never to see me again.” 

“But it makes a difference to you, does it not?” Achilles was growing truly exasperated. 

Hector stared off in the direction of Troy without answering. Now he was sliding into despondency again. His captor grew frustrated. 

“I am not bound by Menelaus; I can release you if I want.” Perhaps hope would buy him some peace. 

“Release me, then.” Hector said firmly, turning to stare at him. 

“No.” Achilles stared back. 

“And why not?” The prince was clearly trying to remain patient. 

“I enjoy having you here. I enjoy having you, to be more clear. In fact,” Achilles narrowed his eyes and his voice became cold, “I think this afternoon I’m going to take that wine bag with the horn attached to it that you saw in the bathing chamber—do you know what that is? That’s what I use to clean you out when I want to fuck you like a bed slave, and it’s been days since the last time I did that. You were in such a fog I don’t think you understood completely what I was doing the last time, although you rocked like a boat when I did it, and your moans could be heard—“ 

Hector’s face, which had paled when Achilles began this speech, now flushed, and he lunged at the warrior, who met him instantly, and the two went like cats to the ground, wrestling with teeth bared. Achilles held back his strength at first, and let Hector struggle with him as an equal for several minutes, enjoying it thoroughly. Soon their clothing was torn from them, and they twisted around one another in their nakedness. Hector was truly furious, and barely registered it, but for Achilles it was glorious to know that at this moment, Hector was completely focused on him. Not agonized, not worried, not ashamed, just subsumed in the struggle. 

Once he could see his prince begin to tire, Achilles exerted his full power and wrestled him into a hold from behind, with his arms pulled back, and his legs trapped and entwined. Hector panted in his grip. “Release me!” 

“I don’t think I will. I think I should call for the handmaids to come and fondle you until you’re hard, while I hold you just like this. What do you think?” Achilles asked conversationally. 

Hector struggled more, but he couldn’t move in the warrior’s hold. His eyes were anxious. “Why would you do that?” 

“To teach you who is master here,” Achilles said matter-of-factly. “I know how you hate being on public display, but you are very much at my mercy and right now, you’re spread out like a banquet. Imagine them both staring down at you, playing with you while you try to hide your face in shame.” 

Hector stopped struggling, “Please don’t,” he managed. 

“That’s a better tone,” Achilles praised. “But look, I think a part of you would like very much to be held tight, very tight, while those women stroke you, and you’re helpless.” 

Hector fell silent, horrified at the idea of such humiliation, but also very agitated inside. 

Achilles pulled his arms back tighter yet. 

Hector lay trapped and breathing fast. 

“Shall I take you back into the bedroom and we can be private, or shall I call them to come make you moan while I hold you just like this, and we all watch you?” 

“Take me back,” Hector whispered. 

“Happily,” Achilles said flatly, and released his hold. 

Hector staggered to his feet, and reached with shaking hands for his wrap. Achilles smiled to see the shame with which the prince covered his erection and glanced worriedly around the garden. Then he went with eyes downcast, and his captor followed close behind, a smile curving his lips.


	6. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector's memories come back one by one, as they always do. And Achilles hates it.

In the bedroom, Achilles made it clear that every order must be followed, or there would soon be an audience. “They like you, I can tell. They’d very much like to watch.”

Hector avoided his gaze and stood with clenched teeth, his blue cloth bunched before him. 

“On the bed, on your hands and knees. Lose the cloth.” 

Hector complied, eyes burning. Achilles mounted the bed and moved behind him. “Oil,” he pointed, and Hector handed him back the pot, hoping very much he wasn’t about to be plundered from behind. He was certain it would hurt. 

“Knees further apart.” Achilles had a brusque way of giving orders in a perfectly normal voice. “Now, down on your elbows.” 

Hector closed his eyes in mortification and assumed the degrading position, lowering his head to rest on his arms. 

Achilles slicked up his hand and reached between the spread thighs from behind, rubbing the erect cock, sliding his hand firmly over the balls, and massaged every bit of the most private and intimate parts of his captive as they hung down like fruit. Hector bit his lip and tried to remain quiet and still, but the pleasure grew intense. The Greek seemed to know just exactly how he liked to be handled, a bit rough, a bit fast, and then when his hips began to move helplessly, he slowed down to make it a torment. 

Hector tried to keep his protests in his throat, as Achilles held him steady with one hand on his ribs, and the other worked him until he was rock hard and leaking. 

“I should make a harness for you,” Achilles breathed, rubbing faster. “To hold you just like this, and I could stroke you till you are about to burst, and then stop—“ 

He stopped. 

Hector’s head was thrown back now, mouth open. His spread thighs trembled and he emitted a strangled sound of pleading. 

Achilles smiled and began again, jerking him roughly until he came, and then moving his hand to his own throbbing flesh. Holding Hector in position for a moment, he made quick work of himself, and then allowed his prince to fall sideways and lay curled and panting on the bed. The warrior collapsed on top of him, unmindful of all the oils and moisture between them. In fact, he rather liked it, and moved a bit, smearing the mess around and burying his face in Hector’s chest. 

He wrapped his arm around his naked captive and pulled them tightly together, covering Hector’s nudity with his own body. They lay like that as their breathing slowed. 

After a moment, the prince said quietly, “You like seeing me like that?” 

Achilles looked up at his brooding face for a moment, and then cupped one buttock and squeezed it tight, and lowered his lips to the tender skin over the ribs, pressing kisses on whatever part of Hector was nearest. His answer in words would have been that he simply loved Hector, loved him in any mood, and in any position. But it wasn’t the sort of thing he could easily say, so he kissed and caressed in silence. 

Finally, he released his beloved and lunged out of the bed. “We need to eat something with muscle in it. Come.” 

Hector lay unmoving, still breathing rather deeply. He gave Achilles an unfriendly look. “You’re an animal, essentially, aren’t you?” 

Achilles stood for a moment, feeling displeasure in his chest and realizing for the first time—with some surprise—that Hector had the power to wound him. He stared down at his bitter prince and then responded, “And you’re a fool.” 

Hector’s eyes widened slightly. “How am I a fool?” 

“You brought your brother, a notorious young goat, to negotiate with a king whose wife is a renowned beauty, famous across the Aegean for it, in fact. Anyone could have predicted that he’d brew some sort of catastrophe for you.” 

Hector’s mouth tightened. “I did not want to bring him.” 

Achilles thought for a moment. Who was always the one to make the decisions that Hector had to live with? “Priam.” He guessed. Hector reached for a towel and wiped his chest moodily. 

“I suppose,” Achilles ventured, “that your father wanted him out of Troy for a while. Perhaps there was a wife closer to home he was worried about.” 

By the look Hector gave him, he guessed his arrow hit the mark. 

“So you were put in charge of him.” Achilles added. “Well, I can’t argue with the results. They certainly turned out well for me.” He wrapped a cloth about his hips and left his prince lying in the bed to go get some meat. It didn’t escape him that even walking away from his prize bothered him. He really was not pleased except when Hector’s face was before him, and his eyes were looking at him. Or when Hector’s body was in his hands. 

***

Hector lay in the bed alone. He was hungry, but felt curiously limp and blank. There seemed no real reason to do anything. He tilted his head back to look at the bright blue sky beyond the crumbling wall. After a moment, his feral captor padded back into the room with a pile of fish in a wooden bowl, well salted, and climbed into the bed with him. 

“Eat,” he instructed, and put the bowl on Hector’s chest. Then he crawled around behind the prince, wrapped his arms under the other man’s and hauled him backward until he was cradled in Achilles’ arms, his head resting back on the warrior’s chest. It wasn’t unpleasant. Hector ate, and felt fingers carding absently through his hair. When he’d finished eating, he leaned his head back and let his captor weave his fingers through the curls. It was curiously soothing. 

“Why did you want me?” He finally asked. 

“You fight without hating,” Achilles said unthinkingly. 

He could feel the prince’s puzzlement. “Many do.” 

“Not like you. You fight till you drop. But without hatred, or a desire for glory. I’d never seen that before I fought you. Now I want to fight you every single day and lay with you every single night.” This was the most self-explanation Achilles had ever offered anyone. 

Hector lay relaxed in his arms, eyes drooping closed. The lines in his forehead smoothed. His brow looked almost clear. 

Achilles savored the moment, leaning in to catch the scent of his lover’s head. For one perfect moment, he inhaled the spice that he’d first experienced the day he sat in his hut, confusedly clutching a severed braid. 

Behind Hector’s closed lids flashed a sudden image of Achilles standing over him, in full armor, eyes blazing with hatred, and a sword pointed at his throat. With a gasp and a jerk, Hector came to full alertness and shrank away from the man who held him. 

“I remember! I remember fighting you—“ Hector pushed himself further from him and turned to stare at him in alarm. “You were surely going to kill me. You hated me. Why would you hate me so much over Menelaus’s wife?” 

Achilles looked away in frustration. The problem with lethe was you never knew how long it would last. 

Hector crawled from the bed, now wanting distance from him. “You are still lying to me. I can see it.” 

Achilles gritted his teeth. For a split second he’d had what he wanted: peaceful, happy Hector in his arms. Then it was gone. He grabbed the wooden bowl and whipped it across the room in a silent, pale-eyed fury. Hector, frightened, snatched up whatever sheet he could find to cover himself and walked quickly from the citadel. 

***

“Let him be for a while,” his mother advised, seeing Achilles, dressed for training, stalking through the citadel in search of his prey. The muscles in his jaw were working and his blue eyes scanned coldly. 

“The more you terrify him, the faster he’ll remember,” she warned. 

Her son stood for a moment, his entire chest lifting with his breath. Then he turned and went down the steps that led to the beach. Most likely, Hector was in the stables or out on the bluffs where the horses would be. Achilles decided to run off some of his burning energy. He made his way down to the white sand near the fisherman’s favorite spot and removed his sandals. A run around the island to the rocky shoals and back would calm him down.


	7. Cooperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles is beginning to formulate the narrative he will trap Hector in. If he can just figure out the right words, the right threats, the right dosage...

Hector stood barefoot on the soft green grass at the highest point, staring toward Troy. Clouds had rolled in from the east and made the sky white and gray, and the breeze had picked up. The prince was more focused, however, on the clouds in his mind. There were few actual memories in his head, but there was a sense growing that more time had passed than he had previously thought. When he’d awoken before, his last memory had been Sparta. But now that memory seemed to have receded down a long tunnel, and he had the sensation of having been caught in a lingering, feverish dream, full of shadows and reflections, echoes and scents…

Movement along the beach drew his gaze, and he looked down to see the warrior running along the water’s edge, leaning forward, head down, arms pumping. Even from the distance, Hector could sense the scowl. He watched cautiously, feeling a trickle of unease at the very sight of Achilles. The man ran so easily, so effortlessly. As he did everything. Hector was prepared to believe he wasn’t entirely human.

Suddenly the fellow’s head snapped up as if he’d sensed his captive’s location. Without a pause, he veered away from the beach and toward the rocks that piled up against the bluffs, and began climbing directly toward the worried Trojan.

Hector watched for a moment, tensely. Surely he couldn’t scale the bluffs. But watching the blond head and brown arms methodically moving from one jagged projection to another, it didn’t take long for him to conclude that yes, this was the island Achilles had spent much of his boyhood on, and climbing up a small cliff would be just exactly the sort of pastime he’d enjoy. Hector backed away, moving nervously across the gentle slope of the highlands, toward the center of the island. He looked back to see the Greek pull himself up over the edge and set off running directly at him.

Even though the warrior hadn’t hurt him yet, the sight of Achilles running at any man tended to put a fright into him. Hector turned, clutching at his wrap, and sprinted as fast as he could over the grass, but he could hear the light foot steps only moments before he was tackled to the ground, and he scrambled and twisted in absolute mindless panic until he was once again grappled into submission. 

This time he went limp once he knew he was conquered, and Achilles rolled him over onto his back and sat on him. Suddenly Hector’s hand flew out to his side and felt around as if expecting to find some weapon there. He turned his head, wondering what he was searching for, and then went still. He looked up to see Achilles brooding over him, blond hair hanging down on either side of his face. 

“I can see the wall of Troy behind you,” Hector said.

Achilles tipped his head, puzzled.

“When we fought, and you had me down like this, we were outside the walls of Troy.” Hector stated.

The puzzlement left and was replaced by a strange look of guilty frustration. He sighed and lay down on top of his captive without explanation, burying his face in the dark curls.

“I didn’t take Helen back to Sparta,” Hector guessed. “I took her back to Troy, and Menelaus came for her, and he brought you.”

Achilles’ hands moved up and down Hector’s arms in a rough caress. 

“But.. my father let you take me?” His prince sounded hurt, which was unbearable.

“No. I lured you out of Troy and fought you till you were exhausted, and then I tied you up and took you away. No one had a chance to stop me.” Achilles sat up again and looked down at him sternly. “Do you see that pyre over there?”

Hector turned his head as he lay on the grass and looked. There was indeed a pile of dried wood, stacked quite high, near some boulders on the edge of the bluff. It was a wonder he had not noticed it. His eyes widened. “Is that for me?”

Achilles looked at him as though he were a fool. “No, it’s a signal fire. If I light it, to my messengers it means you are dead. But if you cooperate, that fire will never be lit.”

Hector contemplated his situation. It was remarkable how he’d calmed once Achilles had pinned him. He was now lying quite passive in the grass, his kidnapper lying on top of him, stroking his arms and hair like a lover, and gazing over at what looked very much like a funeral pyre, but no, it was a signal fire to—

“And if I don’t cooperate?”

Achilles stared down at him, eyes coolly speculative now.

“I think it’s time for you to find out just what cooperation means,” he said, and hauled the prince to his feet. “Come.”

Hector, once on his feet again, wavered. 

The warrior began walking toward the citadel, clearly expecting his captive to follow obediently. 

Hector decided not to follow obediently.

Achilles came back and snatched his drapery away, leaving him naked out on the highland, beneath the gray clouds.

Hector decided to follow obediently. He managed to get some of the cloth around his hips, but his captor held tight to one end of it, and it served as a leash to guide his recalcitrant prince back to the citadel. The handmaids were working in the garden, and looked up to smile knowingly at the chagrined prince being led by his wrap into the bathing chamber.

Once in, Achilles went to the ledge that protruded along the south wall and held blocks of soap, and bristle brushes, and a small leather bag with a hollowed, blunt-edged horn at its mouth. “I know you know what this is. Do you need help?” He asked dispassionately, using a bowl to scoop water from the huge cauldron the handmaids used to heat the bath water.

Hector watched in alarm as the other man tested the water in the bowl for warmth, and then submerged the small bag, holding it to let it fill with water. He started to back out of the room, but Achilles simply reached over and grabbed his wrap again, and it was clear that if Hector wanted to walk out, he’d have to walk out naked, and even then it was likely Achilles would follow him.

“This is what will happen. You’ll lean over and put your hands on that stool, and I’ll put this inside of you and clean you out. And after a while, when I think the time is ripe, you’ll lay down on the bed and I’ll fuck you until I’m satisfied. Or, you can put up a fight, and I’ll hold you down, and call for the handmaids—“

“Is this how it’s going to be? I submit to whatever you demand or you threaten me with humiliation and shame?” Hector interrupted testily. “Because you must know that will not work forever. The time will come that I decide those two simple girls are not worth avoiding.”

Achilles favored him with a small smile. “Yes, I know. The time will come when I have to threaten you with something more serious.”

“Such as?” Hector lowered his head and stared at him, eyes hot and black.

Achilles stared back, eyes blue and steady. “If I light that signal fire, it means I have decided you need to be punished, and the most serious punishment is for Agamemnon to attack Troy.”

Hector snorted in disbelief. “Agamemnon will attack Troy because Achilles can’t bed Hector?”

Achilles acknowledged the point with a nod. “No, Agamemnon will attack because he will think you are dead, and your city is weak.”

Hector held stubbornly to his wrap, continuing to stare down his nemesis. “The walls of Troy have never fallen.” He said calmly.

“But what about the tunnel? The one at the back of the compound, by the broken barrels?”

Hector froze. 

“If I know about it, you must ask who else knows, and how fast that information can travel,” Achilles finished, and then lifted the dripping bag from the warm water. “Put your hands on the stool.”

Hector stared at him in dismay. “You’d kill people for this?” He asked in disbelief.

“No, for this I’ll call in the handmaids. But be aware of how much I know, and how much patience I have,” Achilles said, and then pointed. “Stool.”

Thus it was that Hector stood naked, bent over the stool, face burning in mortification, as his captor smeared a bit of scented oil on the hollow, smooth-tipped horn, and very slowly and gently inserted it between his buttocks. His breath drew in sharply when it touched his most sensitive part and slid into him frighteningly deep. Hector’s fingers clenched on the wooden seat of the stool. 

“You aren’t hurt,” Achilles murmured, and squeezed the leather bag, forcing the warm water into his quivering victim. The prince cringed to feel the water filling him. Finally he withdrew the device and dropped it back into the bowl. Then he pointed to the chamber pot in the corner.

“At least leave me some last bit of privacy,” Hector said, eyes averted, face crumpled in misery.

Without a word, the lion prowled from the chamber, and Hector retreated to the corner, thankful that no one in his family knew what he was enduring. 

***

“We still have wine?” Achilles asked his mother, who pointed to the large cask on the rough wooden table of the kitchen. 

“Don’t give him too much. He’s already confused,” she recommended blandly, picking through her collection of shells.

He shot her a look and then filled a chalice, sipping a bit from it himself.

“So was I right? It does no good to take him back further? Because no matter what you erase, he will still be what he is, and it will only come back again anyway.”

Her son forbore to be rude to his mother, but he clearly wanted to give her a stare.

“It’s confusion, or it’s despair,” he said, looking around at the bowls of fruits instead.

“Despair might pass, eventually,” she suggested, but he only squirmed. “Ah yes, it’s about the discomfort his despair causes you.” 

“I will find a way around the locks in his mind,” he said. 

She watched him go, and then turned to the handmaids. “At any rate, the situation provides us with some entertainment,” she said. They giggled.

*** 

When Hector finally emerged from the bathing chamber, looking defeated, his captor was waiting for him in the bedroom with a chalice of wine. There was no fire, as it was still day.

“Drink,” he recommended, and offered it.

“I don’t want any.”

Achilles set the chalice on the small table by the bed and picked through the pile of discarded items on the floor that always accumulate where men toss their sandals and towels, belts and knives. He returned with a very long strip of heavy cloth.

“Turn and put your hands behind you,” he instructed.

Hector backed away from him in alarm, but there was nowhere to go save the balcony.

“No, no. Don’t do this.” He was close to pleading.

Achilles picked up the chalice again and held the binding in one hand and the chalice in the other. “Choose, prince of Troy.”

Hector tossed his head as he did when utterly frustrated, and Achilles watched him. His face was inscrutable, but his nose and mouth and throat were full of an emotion for his captive that felt like the smoke of incense. _How I love you, _he mused absently.

Finally, head tipped, eyes accusing, his lips tight, Hector reached for the wine and sniffed it distrustfully. 

“I swear to you, it is just wine.” Achilles said quietly. “To help you relax. I don’t want this to be painful.” It was one of his joys that the lethe made Hector a virgin again, of sorts, and the warrior could initiate him again and again into the terrors and wonders of being carnally dominated by his enemy.

Hector drank some wine, stared moodily down into the chalice, and then drank the rest of it. His gaze moved around the room as it did when he was anxious. He was very aware of the golden monster who watched him, his full lips curved into the enigmatic smile he often wore.

“Perhaps it would be better for you to be bound,” Achilles said softly.

Hector stared at him.

“You are not at fault,” the warrior continued, looking at him intently. “Your brother started this mess with his romantic nonsense. And Menelaus married a woman far too beautiful for him to begin with. Agamemnon seeks any excuse to wage war. Even your father listens to his priests rather than his generals. You are the one blameless man in this war. You ask yourself what you could have done, but there is nothing. No one listens to you, and yet you are the one we all should listen to.”

Hector was staring at the floor now, listening. There was something hypnotic about the deep, quiet voice speaking so matter-of-factly.

“Let me make you feel as helpless as you are.” Achilles took the binding and wrapped it around Hector’s strong neck, and crossed it over his chest, and passed it under his arms. Then the binding was wrapped around his ribs, high and tight, and soon his captor was behind him, urging him in a whisper to put his arms behind him. Achilles tied him at the elbows and wrists, tight almost to the point of pain, but not quite.

When he was secured, his captor eased him down into the bed, his face down, and then, shucking his own tunic, joined his victim on the bed. Hector felt the other man straddle his hips and then stroke his arms and shoulders soothingly, as if he were a pet.

“Now there is nothing you can do. Nothing that happens is your fault. You’ve been sacrificed to the gods, and I—“ here Achilles smiled, “—I’m the god you’ve been given to.” He reached for the pot of oil, and Hector felt his head grow heavy and his eyes closed. Somehow, this was familiar, the feeling of his leg being pulled up, and the oiled fingers beginning their tantalizing slide up and down, deep in his crevice. They pushed deeper with every upward stroke. The Greek took his time oiling and teasing his bound lover, sliding down and forward, cupping his balls, and then coming back to enter him just slightly.

Hector buried his face in the bedding, feeling the fingers spread him apart and tap directly on the opening of his body for several seconds, just tapping, and the strange sensation made him arch his back involuntarily, as if he were offering himself up to the fingers. The stroking resumed, and soon it seemed as if his body wanted pressure, and the fingers refused to give it, still touching and teasing as he squirmed. He found himself pushing his hips against the fingers longingly, making frustrated noises in his throat.

Finally, he heard the whisper of a chuckle behind him. “Feel this,” Achilles commanded softly, and pushed the head of his cock into Hector slowly. The prince groaned and held very still, heart pounding as the invasion stretched and filled him. He could feel the shaft sliding deeper into him, and deeper yet. Then it withdrew slowly, and plunged in again. His mouth could only open wide and emit small, guttural noises. His entire being was focused on the sensation of invasion, of being used and possessed. 

Hector struggled against his bonds, not because he wanted to be free, but because suddenly, he didn’t, and he wanted to feel how trapped he was. His captor took that struggle as a sign to begin fucking hard, and he leaned forward and planted his hands on the muscles of the shoulders that bunched in the unnatural position the bonds forced them into. 

Achilles held him down and worked his hips with all the power in his lower back, pounding into the struggling man beneath him. The slick heat of his captive was tight on his cock as he plunged deep again and again. Finally, after making certain his prince felt every bit of his hardness, stabbing into him until his prey’s hips were gyrating in obedient response to the firm, steady rhythm of his thrusts, he reached down under the raised leg and found the leaking, straining member that ached for his touch. He took it firmly, oiling it and pulling on it, forcing the skin up over the head and back rapidly. Hector let out a grateful cry, and his lover worked him harshly, splitting him from behind, abusing him in the front, until the prince was at the very edge.

The blond grew still, riding the squirming, frantic form beneath him slowly now.

“Are you mine?” He asked huskily. “Are you my slave? Do I own you?”

Hector bit his lips for a moment, and then succumbed, “Yes, yes, please. Please, I can’t—“

His tormentor smiled and plunged again, fast and hard, and fondled his victim until he convulsed with agonized pleasure, and cried out incoherently into the sheets. Then he closed his eyes, gripped the prince’s hip with one hand, steadied himself on the bed with the other, and sank deep, rotated his own hips until he felt the build, and the searing delivery of all his essence into his tightly bound beloved. 

***

When Achilles finally untied him, Hector felt oddly sated and tired. 

“Are you sure there was nothing in that wine,” he asked, as his master gathered him up and twined their limbs together. The warrior wanted nothing more than to have that moment again, of Hector, content and pliant in his arms. He guided the curly head to rest on his chest, and wrapped him up possessively.

“No.” He said quietly. "You just have not had much wine since we came.”

He could feel the prince breathing deeply and restfully on top of him. It was a glorious feeling. He put his fingers in that soft hair again. He could feel the black eyelashes move against his chest when Hector blinked.

“You’ve tied me up before,” he murmured sleepily. “We were in a temple. We were in my father’s temple to Apollo and you… ah, you desecrated it.” He didn’t seem to have the energy for strenuous disapproval.

Achilles continued to play with the dark curls, silently. He didn’t want to say anything to encourage Hector to dig around in his memories, for they had been three times to that temple. The first time when they met. The second time, which Achilles had found very enjoyable indeed. The third time had been the beginning of the tragic end of Hector’s world. 

Once Hector’s memories of Priam’s malady began, they tended to tumble down one after another like stones down a mountainside, and his agitation and anxiety, followed by the howling anguish of realization, were a misery to behold. It was rare that Achilles could bear to let the process take its course. Sooner or later he forced poppy extract or lethe into his grieving, frantic prince, and sent him falling backward into darkness and confusion again.

By the rate of Hector’s returning memories, he felt he had only a day left to seek these perfect moments. Perhaps this was the place to suspend him. Achilles tipped his head to see if Hector was asleep; he was. Very well. He’d enjoy holding him for a few hours more, and then, perhaps just a single drop. His mother had said that if only he’d be steady… A drop a day. Perhaps she was right. Achilles held his prize and brooded over the scented hair and the short, dark whiskers along his prince’s jawline. He looked again to see if those eyebrows had lost their slightly worried cast. His captive looked very peaceful. The warrior squeezed him tightly, feeling as though he were guarding Hector against the ghosts of his mind. The foolish father and brother who had so taken him for granted. The people of Troy who blithely depended on his courtly skills and diplomatic words, as well as his utter dedication when in battle. He was more worthy than any of those who’d sacrificed him.

It dawned upon Achilles that Hector was, in fact, more worthy of adoration than he. He looked down at the man in his arms in wonder, suddenly aware of the irony in the fact that Hector was goodness itself, a spirit as pure as a precious metal, and that he, Achilles, would descend to any lies, any cruelty, any ignoble act to keep Hector in his possession. Silver and gold may be pure, he mused, but they did not bring out purity in those who desired them.


End file.
